


Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, do as I command you

by HenryHarryLarry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Happy Prince - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anthony J. ‘Acts of Service’ Crowley, Apologies to Oscar Wilde for all the swearing and ludicrous stuff that I added, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blind Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blind Character, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Happy Ending, He’s a Prince and he knows it, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryHarryLarry/pseuds/HenryHarryLarry
Summary: “High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword hilt.”(Based on ‘The Happy Prince’ by Oscar Wilde. Except I’ve replaced the bits where Oscar goes on about men with lips like pomegranates with some of Aziraphale’s “I need some men to poke about a bit” energy.)Aziraphale is a statue and Crowley is not a swallow. Imagine what happens when they meet!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, do as I command you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UlsPi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/gifts).



> A proper happy ending!
> 
> (You can read the original story here:
> 
> https://www.gutenberg.org/files/902/902-h/902-h.htm 
> 
> There’s also a Stephen Fry audio version on YouTube.)
> 
> *Spoilers*
> 
> Cw: Homelessness, injuries, ableism, hospital
> 
> So the Happy Prince intentionally becomes blind (no gore because he’s a statue). I’ve tried to minimise the gross “Oh no being blind is the worst thing in the world!” but a flavour of it still probably remains. 
> 
> I really didn’t want him to be cured in the end because disabled people get to be happy and in love too.

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword hilt.

When the statue was first erected, people loved his fine appearance, a delighted face shining over the city. His cheeks bulged, a perpetual smile etched into his immobile face. His gold covered body glowed and bejewelled eyes sparkled, catching all the lights of the capital.

“He looks just like an Angel,” said a sweet girl coming out of a nearby cathedral. A group from the children’s home had been invited for harvest festival crafts. She clutched her own paper angel that she had insisted on making for the home’s Christmas tree in several months time. Some of the older children scoffed at her, “Angels don’t exist, you numpty!”

One night there loitered in the city one Anthony J. Crowley. He had a job lined up, to take him away from the freezing winter, as a holiday rep at a resort in Egypt. Hastur and Ligur, his friends, had organised it for him but they had already left. He’d missed the flight. All for a love affair that had gone sour. 

Lee Reed was beautiful and liked to dance. Crowley had loved him and it had lasted all summer. Hastur and Ligur said he was just using Crowley. He’d started to notice that him and Lee didn’t have much to talk about. But Lee seemed to have plenty to talk about with other people. The final straw was the job. They fought. Lee didn’t want him to go, so he’d stayed behind while his friends caught the flight. But too late he’d realised it wasn’t working out with Lee, when he found him shagging someone else in their living room at 34 Tite Street.

“I’m off to the Pyramids and when I’m gone I won’t even think of you!” Crowley had declared marching out of the place he’d recklessly moved into with Lee. No doubt about it, he was better off without him but the immediate reality was that he now had nowhere to stay. His mates were already living it up in warmer climes. Hopefully he could get on the next charter flight to the resort the following Saturday. But in the meantime he was stuck. He’d been walking around the city trying to come up with a plan. His feet ached and he wanted to sit down.

As he walked down Half Moon Street in Piccadilly he spotted a statue in the distance. The base was a cube supporting the flutes of the Doric column. A perfect perch for a little bird like him. He leaned his face up against the sooty stone and decided to rest his eyes, just for a minute or two. But as he was starting to relax, a drop of something wet fell on him.

“What the fuck! There isn’t a bloody cloud in sight!” He was worried something disgusting was now running down his neck. Best not to think about what it could be. Then another drop fell. And another.

“Screw this, I’ll find somewhere else to nest,” he said as he hopped up, glancing heavenwards. It looked remarkably like tears were gathering in the statue’s eyes and running down his cheeks.

“What is this? Some art installation? Banksy’s got a lot to answer for,” he muttered.

“I am the Happy Prince,” a melodious voice rumbled through him.

“Great, I’m hallucinating on top of being homeless. If you are called the Happy Prince why the hell would you be crying, huh? Get a grip, Crowley.”

“Well I used to live in a palace, dear chap. I had everything I wanted, every pleasure at my fingertips, so they called me the Happy Prince. But then I died and they made a statue of me. Now I stand up here all day and night and I see the misery and suffering across the city. Although my heart is made of lead, it still hurts, so I cry.”

“Dear boy, I see a crappy bedsit in Whitechapel. There is a woman working on a commission for her Etsy shop. She’s tired and her hands are pricked all over from the needle. She’s embroidering cocks onto a satin bustier for a hen night. In a bed in the corner of the room her little child is lying ill. He has a fever and is asking for a Capri Sun. His mum has nothing to give him but tap water. Beautiful man, bring her the ruby out of my sword hilt. My feet are stuck to this bloody plinth and I can’t move.”

“How am I meant to get to frigging Whitechapel from Piccadilly Circus? My feet are already killing me. I can’t sprout wings and fly ya know.”

“Someone might give you a day travel card they’ve finished with, if you hang about the tube for a bit?” the statue offered hopefully. “Pretty please, the boy is so thirsty and his mum is so sad.” Was that a pout forming about his sculpted lips?

“I don’t think I like boys anymore. One just broke my heart.” Crowley looked down and shuffled his feet sadly.

Still it was getting colder and the tube was always toasty. “Oh alright. Where’s this ruby then?”

“There is a service ladder round my back side, if you want to shimmy up and help yourself.”

The Piccadilly Line shuddered and groaned. He’d got a seat so his luck was definitely looking up. The carriage wasn’t too full. There was a bloke opposite who was asleep and would no doubt wake up in Cockfosters having missed his stop. A few children, who looked too young to be travelling on their own, were listening to obnoxiously loud music from a phone. Someone in a suit was furiously working on a presentation or a report or some such for a job they probably hated. And there was someone talking to themself, who likely should have been getting some mental health care but was instead having to rely on the public transport network to look after them, while everyone else studiously avoided making eye contact.

He switched to the Central line and then the DLR, getting off at Shadwell station. It was still a bit of a walk from there but that’s the East End for you. At least he’d got a good rest on the train, even naughtily putting his feet up on the seats like the demon he secretly was. He popped the jewel through the seamstress’s letterbox and set off again. May as well see what other bollocks this Prince comes up with, he shrugged.

“The tube was so warm, I feel all cosy now,” he said as he whipped up the statue’s service ladder to his lofty new roost.

“That’s because you did a good deed. You know, I think deep down you really are quite a nice...” Crowley interrupted the statue by frowning and squeezing his long fingers together in a ‘shush, quit it, if you know what’s good for you’ gesture.

“Dearest boy, I see a young man in Charing Cross tapping away on his phone trying to finish a delightful story, that he needs to upload to the internet, about some televisual characters he’s imagining are secretly fucking. But he’s run out of credit on his leccy and his phone battery is dangerously low. His landlord put in one of those horrid card meters, you know, that works out more expensive than for middle class people who can pay their bills by direct debit.”

“Shall I take him another ruby?”

“Erm no. I’ve got none left. I’ve only got my eyes, which are rare sapphires. To be honest, I actually feel rather uncomfortable about holding on to them. They were stolen from India you know and really shouldn’t be kept by the royal family. Beautiful man, take one of them to him.”

When he found the young man’s room at 3 Adelaide Street it had no letterbox. While he pondered what to do he spotted a stone bench slash statue. He said excuse me to the handsome bugger it depicted and hopped up onto it. From there he managed to fling the jewel through a small gap in the man’s window where it didn’t quite shut properly (grr, that landlord).

Crowley returned to the Prince and took up his position at his feet. “Oh Prince I really hope I can get on that flight on Saturday. I am freezing my bollocks off in this country.” He shivered. “Hey, listen, I was thinking, I’ll bring you back something when I come home in the Spring. Something glittery to replace your jewels.” He grinned up at the Prince.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“Shaddup.”

“My dear, do you see a young girl, just down there, with blue hair. She’s selling The Big Issue but she’s dropped all the magazines in a puddle so she can’t sell them now. And her usual resting place has had anti homeless spikes installed. Beautiful man, pluck out my other eye and bring it to her.”

Crowley sighed and slid down the ladder.

“Um, would you like this? Just found it. Dunno might be worth something,” he mumbled, holding out the jewel.

He climbed back up to the Prince. “So, right, Prince, hang on, it’s just occurred to me. Are you blind now?”

“Yes. Yes I am rather.”

“Well... okay... I see. I mean shit! Sorry! Just, I wanted to say... I think... that I’m not going anywhere, for a bit.”

“No, Beautiful man, your job, Egypt...”

“Nah, I hate those guys anyway. Besides I’ve got a golden bedroom now.” And he went to sleep at the Prince’s feet.

All the next day Crowley sat on the Prince’s shoulder and told him funny stories about his life, disastrous Grindr dates and shambolic nights out with the Gruesome Twosome, Hastur and Ligur.

“Beautiful man, you are a riot but please can you do me a favour? Travel through my city and tell me what you see.”

So Crowley moved through the great capital. He watched celebs falling out of the Cadogan Hotel, politicians lording it at the tax payers’ expense at the Albemarle club, while teachers stashed snacks in their desk drawers because children didn’t have enough to eat.

He told the Prince what he had seen.

“Beautiful man, I am covered in fine gold. Strip it off me and give it away,” he replied in a steely tone.

Carefully, slowly, reverently, Crowley removed pieces of gold leaf from all over the Prince’s body. He gave them away to queer youth groups and community breakfast clubs. Until all the gold was gone and the Prince looked quite naked.

Then the snow came and after the snow came the frost. Crowley never dressed for the weather. His main objective in selecting clothes was to show off. So he was very, very cold. The feeling went in his fingers and toes, his face tingled and his skinny body trembled. But he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well.

One day he had become so very ill that he feared he was going to die. “Goodbye Angel,” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”

“Ooo did you get your flight sorted? Good. You’ve stayed here far too long. But you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”

They kissed and it was fucking magic. Crowley lay down at his feet and passed out.

Later that day Gabriel, the mayor, was strolling about the city with his lackeys, Sandalphon and Uriel. “What in heaven’s name... there is a person up on the statue of the Happy Prince!”

“And the Prince has let himself go,” commented Sandalphon the bitch.

“That’s a statue that’s been up there too long,” muttered Uriel.

So they called the fire brigade to get the reckless human rescued. And then they put in orders for the shabby statue to be pulled down.

It turned out that Crowley had pneumonia. However, a few days in St James hospital and he was nearly on the mend. But his heart was broken at the thought that he had lost his beautiful Prince.

“Watcha,” said nurse Beelzebub. They were diminutive, rather gothy and had bonded right away with Crowley over a shared macabre sense of humour. “You ready to party like it’s 1999?”

“Have you been raiding the pharmacy stockroom again?”

“Nope. You got a visitor. But he won’t give us his real name. Will only say it’s ‘Prince’, big fan is he?”

A little while later Crowley fussed with the collar of his hospital issue psychedelic paisley patterned pyjamas. He’d have preferred psychedelic black instead but it was take what you were given.

Beelzebub pushed open the swing door to the room and just behind them, it was him. “My own Prince!” Crowley exclaimed, which triggered a smile both precious and life giving in the other.

“Beautiful man, darling boy, I’ve found you,” he said, his hand reaching out to look for him as Beelzebub steered him around the edge of the bed.

“How... how are you alive?” Crowley stammered, taking his warm hand in his own.

“Ahh best not get into all that now, your head would probably explode.” He climbed onto the bed, straddling Crowley’s thin frame. They were breaking several hospital rules. No matter, they were above caring about all that sort of thing. Thankfully so was Beelzebub. The Prince gave Crowley a filthy kiss, all tongue and heavy breathing.

“You need a name. I can’t keep calling you ‘Prince’,” panted Crowley into his mouth.

“Alright, what about ‘Aziraphale’?”

“Perfect.”

And it was.

**Author's Note:**

> All the places mentioned are related to Oscar’s life or works. 
> 
> Except Shadwell tube station. 
> 
> And er, Cockfosters. There was no _good_ reason for putting that one in.


End file.
